Title: Dreaming in Poetry
Author: Amy B.
Pairing: M/K of a sort, I suppose, maybe... Rating: PG
Feedback: Yes, please: firstname.lastname@example.org Disclaimers: The characters do not belong to me, only the thoughts I put in their heads.
Summary: More than a snippet, less than a story. Alex Krycek has a dream...
Note: I was standing on my deck weekend before last and heard the beating of a bird's wings as it flew over my head. This image settled in the back of my brain where it has percolated ever since as I've worked on other stuff (or tried to at least). Finally, Alex demanded I write it all down before I lost it. Originally I intended to write this as a poem, but I'm just not a poet. Prose is more my thing. It's just a weird little ditty that I am glad to finally have out of my head. ;-)
Thanks & hugs to Zen, Nicole, and Dorothy Marley for early feedback that gave me the courage to post.
I had a dream last night. Well, I have dreams all the time, I'm sure, but luckily I don't remember most of them. The nightmares can stay buried in the murky recesses from which they arise for all I care. That 'confronting your demons makes them weaker' idea is just so much bull. If you bring them up into the light, not only do you have to see how incredibly ugly they really are, you have see them every damn day until you finally come to your senses and bury them again.
So anyway, I had this dream where I'm standing in the middle of a wide grassy meadow, which is scattered with the obligatory wildflowers and surrounded by dense old growth forest. Above the trees, the sky boils and rolls with black and gray thunderheads, gold and silver threads of lightning giving the storm depth and fury. Yet over the meadow, the sun is shining and the sky is a most mesmerizing shade of cerulean blue, dotted with fluffy white clouds that look like cottony bunny tails to my whimsical eye. I'm standing there in the warm still air, looking around, just sort of soaking it all in... the beauty of the place, the complete, unnatural silence.
I hear a quiet sound, a tiny little whuff in the air and a shadow passes over me. It's small but so out of place that I notice it right away. I look up and see a hawk flying overhead. Well, I think it's a hawk. I'm not exactly Marty Stouffer or Marlin Perkins. As I watch, the sheer grace of the hawk as it wheels around and flies back toward me overwhelms me and gives new meaning to the words 'poetry in motion'.
Suddenly, I *am* the hawk. I'm soaring through the sky, the wind rushing past in a torrent of sound, but I am silent as I tuck in my wings and dive. I am an arrow, a meteor streaking toward earth, utterly unstoppable. The power of the moment consumes me in a feral conflagration. I am the hawk.
The small brown rabbit is frozen in the grass. Its tiny brain tells it that if it holds still enough I won't see it. Silly rabbit, your tricks won't work on me. I am the hawk. I see the rabbit. I aim for the rabbit with the deadly accuracy of a sharpshooter. Now that's an analogy I'm intimate with... only this time, I'm the bullet.
I silently swoop down, death from above, and snatch the rabbit from the ground. My razor-sharp talons dig into the soft fur and firm flesh of the plump little bunny, which squirms and squeals in useless protest. *Resistance is futile, little one, for I am the hawk. My beak will devour you slowly, in small bits that I rip clean from your bloody flesh as my claws hold you still. You'll feed me well and, when I'm done, I'll not give you another thought. I'll be hunting again. For another rabbit, a gopher, a prairie dog, whatever small defenseless creature I can find. That's nature. It's what hawks do, how we live.*
I am beauty and blood and truth and brilliance and death and freedom and immutable power. I am the hawk. Oh yes, I am.
When I woke up from the dream, my first thought was of Fox Mulder. I wondered where he was and what he was doing. Maybe I'll pay him a little visit soon. A fox and a hawk... now *that* is poetry.